


Ringfinger

by hexagram



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bottom!Lock, M/M, Many Regrets, Porn With Mild Plot, The Night Before The Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:50:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1450945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexagram/pseuds/hexagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tomorrow is the day you leave me, and tonight is the night when I can't stand it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ringfinger

They haven't knocked since their third meeting, and the habit remained years later. And bitterly, it still remained ever since John moved out.

Sometimes Sherlock would glance at the doorway, eyes jumping toward every sound and every creak that came from the wood, but the work at his hands demanded to be finished. So he fumbled and played with evidence, did his tricks while his mind sat somewhere at the edge of the doorknob. He found it arrogant of him to think that John would visit him on this night--why would he be with anyone but the one he loves? And the one time he cursed himself for looking at the door again, John arrived.

"John," Sherlock stopped. "Shouldn't you be..."

In response John pulled a thin grin on his face, shifting from one foot to the other like Sherlock knew he always did when he felt either uncomfortable or exposed. Sherlock's hands rested on the coffee table as he set aside the cold metal in his hands, narrowing his eyes just slightly, wondering who would be the first to speak without stuttering.

"Mary, uh, she's doing something too," John said, a cough following his sentence. He looked over the room and in the direction of the fireplace, taking his freedom to walk inside without permission, which they both understood he did not need. 

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, his mouth lingering on the shape of the last word. "Nervous for tomorrow?"

"I guess so, yeah," John said, walking over towards his, well, not his anymore, chair, but not sitting down. "How's that going?"

Sherlock followed his eye to the item that he was preoccupied with minutes ago, looking over it and taking the time to actualy remember why he had it in his hands in the first place. He looked back at John, thoughts in his head starting to gain momentum.

"You know," he shrugged. "I'll have it done."

He watched John pick up the object, the cold metal colliding gently with the one around his finger. The sound made them both simultaneously twitch.

"Does that feel strange?" Sherlock tried, his eyes cold and not blinking.

"Yeah," John said with a small laugh. "Sometimes it's stranger not having it on."

He tilted his head up again, finally responding to Sherlock's prying stare. John swallowed, watching how the bones in Sherlock's long neck shifted when he turned his head away in dismissiveness.

"It is almost cruel of you to come here tonight," Sherlock spoke, promptly getting up and approaching John in a calculating pace.

John leaned back, looking up at the tall man with an incredulous smile on his face, although this time it looked tired, worn. He wanted to question him, demand an answer as to why he was being so childish about the same old wound again. Once again, Sherlock planted a seed of guilt in his chest that always lingered anyway, sometimes more evidently than others, when they were together since Mary.

"I need your support in this, Sherlock," John said slowly, his hands stiff at his sides, the fear trembling his hidden thumbs.

"Sometimes," Sherlock started, licking his lips. "Sometimes I just can't."

His shaking stare jumped between John's eyes, the towering pride that he usually felt from being taller than the man lost in the encounter. They've met in this same spot, the same situation many times before, but in the vilnerability of this moment Sherlock feared that he would not be able to control himself.

"Tomorrow is the day you leave me, and tonight is the night when I can't stand it."

John immediately frowned, releasing his thumbs and raising one hand to point it into Sherlock's chest.

"Leave you?" John said, his voice cracking in the tension of the atmosphere between them. "I'm not the one to leave you."

"I know, I'm s-"

"No, no, stop," John regained himself like the solider he was. "It was over, it has been over, since you left me. Since the call. Since I haven't been able to sleep at night before Mary came around."

"I came back, isn't that enough?" Sherlock spat out, wanting to swallow the words as soon as they came out of his throat.

"How many times-" John cut himself off, turning around and pacing in his step. "I don't know why I ever bother with you," he shook his head, biting his lips to stop the words from sounding. "Grow up."

He turned towards the door way, half desperately wanting to get out and leave Sherlock with his guilt and the effect of his words, and half begging for Sherlock to grab him, hold him closer.

But the footsteps behind him were rapid, intimidating, a hand snapping foward right next to John's head and smashing into the arch of the doorway. John froze in his place, sensing the breath on his shoulder and the weight of Sherlock's forehead. As he turned around, there was a heat starting to grow and get worse in the air between their bodies. He has seen Sherlock's this dark before, when in the morning after he woke up with bruises on his neck.

"Grow up?" Sherlock said through gritting teeth. "I've done my growing, John," Sherlock said. "Have you?"

John's dry lips hung apart as he held still in his stance. Sherlock kept him locked in one place, between the door and himself, but did not touch him. Somehow, it was more frustrating that he didn't.

"We both know why you're here," Sherlock said. "We both know."

At the snap of the last vowel from Sherlock there were gasps and forces colliding, hands grabbing at week-old shirts and mouths gnawing at each other, swallowing tongues and gasps. Sherlock had John pressed against the door, grabbing the side of John's face to guide him into a deeper kiss while John's fingers clawed at Sherlock's back.

The curly black hair tickled at John's ear but the rising laugh soon stopped in his thoat as teeth were digging into his neck, softened by a tongue and traveling over any exposed skin. Long fingers desperately dug into clothing, pulling it aside, Sherlock's impatience undoing buttons and playing with the belt buckle.

"Sherlock..." John gasped, throwing his head back to rest it against the door way. His cheeks were flushed and lips dark pink; he buried his hand in the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt, palming the soft skin hiding under there.

"Please," Sherlock whispered, lips ghosting over the shell of John's ear, his words like a siren's song. "One last time."

At that plea John groaned, hearing the tear of a button off Sherlock's shirt when he moved his hands to expose more of Sherlock's skin. Their reasoning was left behind in the living room as they ended up hitting Sherlock's undone sheets. Sherlock crawled from under him, reaching his long arms up to grasp John's face and cradle it while he kissed him slower, carefully. As John held himself up, he kicked off his shoes and tore away his mouth from Sherlock only to hold it over his sharp cheekbones, kissing down the jawline and the line of his thoat, the tiny gasps vibrating the skin against John's lips. The sounds drowned the room, Sherlock making no point of being shy or quiet like he used to do when they first started. 

And now, once they're back in, it was almost like they never stopped.

Fingers fumbled over the buttons of John's shirt; Sherlock tried to sit up as he slid the cloth of the shirt over John's strong shoulders. Sherlock gasped at the exposed flesh, burying his nose in John's neck and moving his lips over the bone in the shoulder, branding kisses as he went, breathing in deeper. John noticed the slight frown on the man's features as his mouth worshipped the body, maybe for the last time, maybe the time he will be left dreaming about. Their lips met again, the open eyes intimidating movements but fueling the fire between them; Sherlock's needy fingers felt at John's sides before slipping down to remove his pants, palming the hardening flesh under John's briefs just to elicit a sudden moan from the man above him. 

The knowing hand felt more, grabbed at the right parts that John's eyes rolled in the back of his head before he regained the consciousness that he momentarily lost in the concentrated pleasure. He flipped Sherlock onto his stomach, the man under him not resisting for a second. Grabbing at the waistband of his pants, John rid them out of his sight, licking his lips at the bare image before him.

He leaned back, mouth hung open and eyes lidded with lust as Sherlock arched his back in perfect presentation, showing his ass to John and looking back with black eyes, starting to grow even more impatient.

John reached for the nightstand, swinging a drawer open and retrieving the bottle of lube and a condom, surprised at himself, Sherlock, and the certain knowledge that the items would still be there.

"Hurry," Sherlock demanded, watching John's every move, but in the bedroom, he did not hold that calculating stare that always masked his eyes. These eyes were raw, dirty.

After promptly coating the fingers on his left hand, John palmed Sherlock's back and slid one finger inside him, gaining that first loud moan from Sherlock, who pushed back to take it in deeper. He was tight; John slid his hand over the side and to the front, first rubbing his fingers over the erect flesh then taking the whole length in his hand and pumping. He heard a swear get swallowed by the pillow.

The second finger went in easier, and Sherlock was starting to drip on the sheets under them. He twisted his head to look at John with a terribly naughty stare, bending his back in again, taking John's fingers in deeper, showing them where they belong.

At the third finger, Sherlock growled, swinging his hips from side to side momentarily.

"Cold," he gasped, uttering the word right as John's fingers brushed over his prostate, making him jerk his hips.

"What?" John asked, lips resting on Sherlock's spine.

"The damn ring," Sherlock said again. "Take it off."

John froze, an anger rising up in his chest at Sherlock's words, but mostly at the crude situation he was neck-deep in. He grit his teeth, pulling out the fingers in a sharp motion, and ignoring Sherlock's gasp of pain, he pulled the wedding ring off his finger, grabbed a handful of Sherlock's hair and without another word slid into his ass in a slow but determined motion.

Clawing at the pillows Sherlock yelled out, hushed only by his own moan as John rubbed over his prostate, an art they've practiced and mastered, one that's never forgotten in their moans and harsh words. John's hand pulled Sherlock's head back by his hair, and fully knowing that Sherlock resented that, he pulled out and plunged in again, toying with the line between pleasure and pain, just how much he could play with Sherlock before John's cruel treatment overrode the pleasure. 

But it never worked that way.

"You did this to me," John spat against the skin on Sherlock's back. "You always fucking do this to me."

"Ah!" was the one response Sherlock could give as John rammed against him, the full force of his hip movements shoving him closer and closer to orgasm. He reached back to grab the hand that was pulling at his hair just to weave their fingers together.

"I always want to," he gasped out, letting go of the hand and slamming it against the bed headboard; John's hand pumped him fiercely, and he was losing his mind, the only touch with reality was the digging of his fingernails into the wood of the headboard and the soft breath painting his back.

John came first, his polite, quiet way forgotten in the Reichenbach times as he groaned out loud, spilling himself into Sherlock's tightening body. The man below allowed himself to scream out dramatically, coming over his own bedsheets, the white haze on his eyelids turning to flaming red as his hips rode out the orgasm. In the last few thrusts they slowed down, allowing the force of gravity to pull them down and the weight of the guilt sink them deeper into the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to my SH (wow that's gay)


End file.
